Hearts & Aces Pt. 3 - This Little Piggy Went To Poker

The next part of my hardboiled New York murder story. Go to andrewhenleywriting.wordpress.com for more of my writing.

In my line of work, I’ve found that people are rarely tempted to do the right thing, or to be good people. Temptation doesn’t work like that. Blanche La Fleur doesn’t work like that. Standing outside Charlie’s, her red dress is like a dangerous beacon, warning you to keep back at all costs. But her ocean blue eyes blind you while her curves lasso you in.

 

With her dark brown waterfall hair flowing freely onto her shoulders, she asks me through slightly pouted lips, “Hello Officer. Have you managed to catch my husband’s killer yet?”

“It’s still early in the investigation.”

“I was ever so lonely last night, without a man to tuck me in. It was awful.”

Her eyelashes flicker like a sexy solar eclipse. You know something bad will happen if you look directly at them, but you’re curious about what exactly that bad thing might be.

“I’m sure we’ll find whoever did it, Miss. La Fleur.”

“The name’s Blanche, Artie,” the scared little girl disappears and the New York vixen returns. “And I can reward you handsomely once you have someone behind bars.”

“I don’t want your money, Blanche,” I tell her while averting my gaze.

She laughs in a breathy, well-rehearsed tone.

“And I don’t wanna give you it, Artie. But a woman like me can offer other rewards to men she admires. It’s a cold world Artie, and if you want love, you have to make it.”

Her mouth attacks me. It’s like kissing a honeydew; juicy and sugary, sweet and wet.

 

She unclamps her lips from mine and gives me a full lashed wink.

“Oh, and do let me know if you find out anything about the dead girl too.”

My left eyebrow crescent moons upwards.

“How’d you know about the dead girl? The papers don’t even know yet.”

“I don’t need the papers to tell me who’s who and what’s what in New York City, Artie. Until next time.”

Blanche La Fleur walks away in a mesmerising ponytrot, with her curves swaying from side to side like a pendulum.

 

She was a welcome distraction from the job at hand, but now I still have to go into Charlie’s Den and face my demons. Rich and intoxicating demons. The go big or go home demons. I feel like I’ve escaped from the African jungle and now I’m being thrown into the lion’s den at the Coliseum armed with nothing but a raw, dripping gazelle steak.

 

Inside Charlie’s Den, a woman with poorly styled blonde hair and crooked teeth smiles as she deals cards through cigar smoke onto the green baize. One of the men picks up his cards and scratches his left eyebrow. Bad hand. This used to be so easy. But I had to get out. Everything stops, and all eyes turn to me like I’m a Wild West bandit. A voice shouts, “Art Saul! Detective now, ain’t it?”

 

It’s Ray Portino, small time player who thinks he’s something big. He’s got a scratchy voice that makes you think he must’ve been smoking when his mama squeezed him out and not stopped since. If it weren’t for his four chins, he’d have a full beard, but as it is all he has is light stubble.

“Yeah, it’s Detective now Ray.”

“Is it time this little piggy went to poker? Tired of oinking through scraps for your master?” he laughs and turns to invite the rest of the table to join him. In one movement, all the stony Wild West eyes fix on Ray and decline his invitation. When he was a regular at Charlie’s, Ray annoyed everyone, but he was tolerated because he lost a lot. Matter of fact, Ray was the original owner of my lucky hat. Things like that don’t change. Most things never change.

 

“I’m here about Cole Blakowski. Killed last night. Word is he owed Charlie big.”

“Oh no, I ain’t squealing to the pigs Art. Sorry.”

Ray sits down with a nervous jitter, and then the Wild West eyes return to the cards. Ray gets dealt two eights and two aces.

 

I’ll get Ray to talk. I leave Charlie’s and wait around the corner. Ray will be out for a cigarette soon. He’s allowed to smoke in Charlie’s, but everyone else smokes cigars, and Ray and his little cigarette get the same insecurities that stops certain guys from showering at the gym.

 

Soon enough, Ray comes out puffing clouds of smoke out of the corners of his cracked lips. I pull him around the corner and slam him up against the wall. His cigarette drops to the floor as I pull out my switchblade.

“Listen Ray, this little piggy’s gonna spill his guts for me. I know that Blakowski was in the hole, but how deep? A few good hands and he’s back to even deep? Trouble deep? Or me deep?”

“Christ Art, no one’s ever been you deep. Blakowski was in trouble though. Rich, but rich guys are the worst gamblers, cause they don’t know how much money they’ve really got until they don’t got it no more.”

“No names, off the record; you think one of Charlie’s boys could be the doer?”

“You know Charlie, Art. He hurts people but he doesn’t kill them. Blakowski wasn’t so broke that he couldn’t have paid back, he’d just have to be encouraged to sell a few assets first, you know? No blood from a stone, Art.”

“What about that lady in just before me. She say anything interesting?”

“The brunette in red. Yeah. She was Blakowski’s girl, right? Told Charlie that she wouldn’t be paying her dead fiancé’s debt, but that she could repay him in other ways. Know what I mean?”

Blanche and Ray are both as subtle as a brick in the face. I put away my switchblade and let Ray down.

“You can go back inside now Ray. Oh, and thanks for the hat.”